Bad Habits
by SeleneNightshade96
Summary: Tamaki started smoking again the night Eclaire arrived. He had been doing so well too, hadn't had a single cigarette in over a year. Never mind that it was illegal for anyone under 20. That had never stopped Renge. One-shot, rated M for obvious reasons. I don't own OHSHC


Tamaki started smoking again the night Eclaire arrived. He had been doing so well too, hadn't had a single cigarette in over a year. Never mind that it was illegal for anyone under 20. That had never stopped Renge, who always had a cigarette between her fingers and smoked like a chimney. She had stopped by after the party and had found him leaning with his back against the railing of his balcony, staring up at the night sky. Gone was Tamaki Suoh, the Host Club prince, heir to the Suoh company throne. In his place was Rene de Grantaine, Frenchman to his blood and bones, wearing nothing more than a pair of sleep pants. Not even a shirt to keep out the early spring wind.

She had stood on the balcony with him, in companionable silence, before digging threw her bag and pulling out a pack and handing him one, light her own. He didn't hesitate to put the cigarette between his lips and lean down to press the tip to her lit one.

"Cigarette kiss" He muttered and she smirked.

They stayed there long after the sticks were gone, simply enjoying the quiet of each other's company. When Renge finally did leave, it was so late it was almost early. A coconut and tobacco kiss to his cheek and a whirl of auburn hair and she was gone.

When he looks back onto that night, he is with Eclaire. Her perfume is sickeningly sweet and seems to seep into and out of the interior of the car. He feels the crushing weight of his choice settle in his stomach and breathing is more akin to choking. Gone were the carefree days of the Host Club, his friends and pseudo family. Gone were the mundane yet magical adventures of commoner's life, he would never again have that chance. Gone were the late night-early morning bad habits he and Renge engaged in. Gone, like his freedom.

He is so caught up in his self-pity that it takes Éclaire to notice Haruhi, but when he does, his heart launches itself into his throat. He barely hears her over the combined noises of the car and carriage, but he doesn't hesitate to jump when he notices her beginning to fall. While he does, he smiles at the woman he almost agreed to share his life with, and there is a moment of understanding between them. Then he's gone, after Haruhi, into the damned river. Which by the way, was still really cold.

After he pulls the both of them out of the (really fucking cold) river, the rest of the Host Club arrives and proceeds to rip him a new one, while simultaneously preventing them from getting frost bite. They reprimand him for the better part of the evening, enough that by the end he feels raw in the best kind of way. They really do love him, gilded coated flaws and all.

Renge ignore his for the next week, complete radio silence. A tried and true testament of the depths of her anger. He tried apologizing, gifts, princely compliments. Nothing works, even Kyoya feels the need to tell him to give her space. But he knows Renge, and if he were to do that, she would find someone else to fill in his place in her life, believing that if he didn't want her she wouldn't waste her time wanting him. Unfair and untrue, but painfully realistic.

He plays his last hand, and draws her into conversations with the dry humor that the French are supposedly coined for. Said in their shared language, in full view of the Host Club, and from there it's a game. Just the two of them, and the conversations only get more and more interesting. Neither willing to give each other an inch, rather sticking to their guns and battling it out than admitting defeat. Neither caring whether the other hosts know what is being said right in front of them, yelled across the room even.

Eventually the battle comes to a head on his birthday, Renge always willing to settle her scores in the bedroom instead of talking it out. Sharing a cigarettes while they catch their breath, watching movies from their country, and cooking breakfast the next morning. From there it's a regular thing, the sleepless nights filled with lust fueled noises, lingering touches, seductive glances across the third music room. They don't beat around the bush on names, they aren't Americans with the "just talking" bullshit game they play. They are French, and they are lovers.

They fuel such bad habits, oi vey.


End file.
